Chapter Twenty-Three
Lord Mark Rydell’s Bloomsbury residence
Half-past ten in the evening
Mark carried a sleeping William to the Sculthorpe carriage, laying him across one seat and covering him with a soft coverlet borrowed from the nursery.
Both children had played hard, falling asleep on Olivia’s bed well before the adults finished their dinner and retreated back to the parlor with port.
Except for William’s presence, the evening had progressed much as Mark had expected, with a delicious meal and what felt like hundreds of probing, detailed questions about his plans for Olivia and Rose, as well as details from Judith on how the tactics for the Blackwell ball progressed.
He had dodged as many questions as he could, Judith peering at him with expressions of curiosity as she stepped into several gaps, often turning the conversation back to the ball.
The three ladies she coached seemed taken with the scheme, and Sarah—whose first husband had been an arrogant, abusive man, much like Atkinson—offered suggestions on how to lure him deeper into the charade.
Only when they were settled with the port did his connection with Judith enter the conversation, with his mother pointing out they had already traipsed into the territory of scandal, with the wager and his acknowledgment of Olivia.
If the plot against Atkinson failed, Italy might be a good option for exile.
Or perhaps Greece, where their aunt lived and Daphne currently visited.
Matthew, who had plans to rejoin Wellington as soon as they had settled Sarah in place to run the duchy, objected strenuously to that possibility, as he wanted Mark to remain in England to help Sarah.
Judith had remained silent in the heated discussion that followed, observing all of them instead of participating.
Mark had also said little, as he had long since stopped caring about his own reputation and did not wish to discuss any of his intentions at the moment.
Too many of them were still not fully formed.
He did worry about how all this would affect Judith and her family, especially if they were not able to rectify Edmund’s financial difficulties.
The main point of the evening, however, had been to introduce his family—and Judith—to Olivia and that had gone as well as could be. And Mark reluctantly realized that his mother’s suggestion for Judith to bring William had been a good one, despite the initial awkwardness.
Mark tucked the coverlet beneath William’s feet, then eased backward out of the carriage, trying not to rock it much. He moved away as the footman helped Epworth and Judith into the vehicle, then peered in through the door as they settled.
“I appreciate you coming, Lady Sculthorpe. I believe your presence made the evening progress much smoother.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You consider that a ‘smooth’ evening?”
He smirked. “Where my family is concerned, remarkably peaceful.”
“Hm.” She leaned back against the squabs. “Something to keep in mind.”
Mark chuckled and stepped away as the footman latched the door, mounted his post, and thumped on the roof.
The driver clicked the reins, and the carriage moved forward, down the street and out of sight.
He waited as the Embleton ducal carriage pulled into its place.
His brother escorted their mother and the lovely Sarah down the steps from the foyer, where they had been waiting.
As the footman opened the door, Phyllida stopped, studying Mark.
“What is it, Mother?”
Her next words were a pronouncement. “You need to marry that woman.”
Matthew and Sarah looked as startled as he felt. “I beg your pardon. I thought you said she was a—how did you put it?—a ‘damnable hussy.’”
“As she is. But so are you.”
Matthew laughed.
“I’m sorry, what—”
“But I have never seen you with a woman so well suited to your outrageous personality. And she looks at you with affection instead of lust, as so many other women do.”
“Mother—”
“Do you think I am blind? Or that I sit in ballrooms and not observe how people look at you? I have tried to steer you toward the ones less obvious in their lascivious gazes at you, not that it has had any effect.”
Mark’s patience evaporated. “Then stop trying. I think it is time you put off your mourning clothes and got up and danced instead of nosing into everyone else’s affairs.”
“Mark!” Matthew moved forward as if to step between them. Phyllida threw up a hand, stopping him as Mark went on.
“Father once told me that you were the finest dancer he had ever squired onto a floor. You had no equal. And it has been almost a year since he died.” He gestured to his brother.
“Matthew is the duke now. The head of household. Let him be it. You are a beautiful woman, and you do not need to spend the rest of your life doing nothing but overseeing and prowling through the lives of your children!”
The air went still. No one moved or spoke. Then his mother snapped toward their stoic-faced footman and held out one hand. The man leapt to her aid, and Phyllida disappeared into the carriage. After a moment, Sarah joined her with a bare glance at Mark.
Matthew shook his head as he reached toward the carriage door. “There will be repercussions.”
Mark let out a long breath. “Of course, there will be. There always are.”
Matthew clapped him on the shoulder, then joined the ladies. The footman secured the door, and Mark stepped backward as it lumbered away from the pavement.
He and his mother had fought often, starting early in his life.
Spats, mostly. His father had explained that Mark and his mother shared a similar temperament, something he could not see then—or now.
He had been ten when the first major row had occurred, but for the life of him Mark could not remember what it had been about.
Something to do with Matthew going off to school probably.
He did remember spending the night in a tree in their back garden.
His mother had forbidden anyone to help him or bring him food or drink.
He had even pissed from his high perch, much to the amusement of his younger brothers.
He had not eaten for two days, until he had apologized.
The first of many rows . . . and many punishments. “But I am not in a tree anymore,” he muttered as he entered the house.
“My lord?”
Mark jerked, startled by Howe’s presence in the parlor doorway.
“Pardon me, my lord.”
Mark motioned for Howe to close the front door. “Let us bring this evening to close, shall we? Tell the maids they can reset the parlor tomorrow. I will not be using it.” He turned toward the stairs.
“Uh, my lord? May I pose a question?”
Mark paused two steps up. “What is it?”
“Lady Sculthorpe’s maid.”
“What about her?”
“You did call her ‘Miss Epworth,’ did you not?”
Mark kept his face still. “I did. Why?”
“I-I-er—I merely wanted to make certain.”
Mark grinned. “You finish down here then get to bed. I’ll undress myself, and you can tidy up in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. That will work out nicely.” Howe gave a slight bow, then turned toward the kitchen.
Mark decided to check on Olivia before retiring, and he opened the door to the nursery slowly, taking only one step inside.
Mark had offered Rose her choice of a separate room or to have a bed brought into the nursery.
She had chosen the room, which most likely allowed her to rest more soundly, even though it was adjacent to the nursery, and if Olivia roused during the night, her grandmother would hear her.
Mark watched his sleeping child. Her face appeared more peaceful and sweet in her slumber, her breathing even and her muscles relaxed.
One arm draped loosely over Lizzie. Moonlight streamed in through the high windows, casting long strips of silver light across the room.
The toys, silent now, waited patiently for the next engagement.
During their time in the parlor, Judith had continually glanced at the door or the ceiling, as if she had been listening for the children, as if she were ready to bolt the room to get to them.
She had seemed distracted, almost withdrawn from the conversation, answering questions briefly.
Had something occurred during dinner to put her off their scheme? A scheme she had devised?
Or had something happened to put her off him?
Mark eased the door closed but lingered in the hallway a few moments, his mind going over the evening once again.
Nothing extraordinary stood out. Rolling his shoulders against exhaustion, he headed down the stairs to his own bedchamber.
Whatever had distracted her would come out eventually, he knew that for certain.
In the meantime, they all had to prepare for one of the most important events of all their lives: the Blackwell ball.
*
Judith stared at the canopy over her bed, her thoughts whirling.
Sleep would be hard to achieve this night, despite her exhaustion.
The evening had not been unpleasant, but a great deal of information and number of details had crossed over her tonight, and Judith had trouble lining them up and making sense out of everything she had heard and witnessed.
And Rose Ashley’s appearance still nagged at her.
Even though Mark had warned them that Rose was reserved and fragile, Judith had been surprised by the look of her as well as her reticence.
Rose had said nothing, nor had her expression changed much, nothing that would indicate whether she were hale and hardy or needed a doctor.
She had hung back from everyone, watching Olivia but little else, wincing any time voices were a little loud.
Which, given the nature of the Rydell family, was most of the time.
Judith had honestly never met any family like them, with the relentless bantering and insults tossed at each other as if they were Christmas trinkets.
Sarah, new to the family, spoke rarely, watching Matthew with pure adoration in her eyes.
What had seemed casual sparring at first had grown increasingly snappish, as if some underlying anger lurked, waiting for an opening.
Judith’s emotions had further warred within her as she thought about how Mark had responded to the children.
She had honestly expected to spend much of the evening with Olivia, getting to know the young girl.
Instead, Olivia and William had whisked themselves off to the nursery while the adults strolled into dinner.
Neither had been seen again until Mark had brought her sleeping son downstairs.
The children had spent the evening only in the company of the frail Rose, with her gaunt face and purple circles around her eyes.
The woman could not be much older than Phyllida, yet she looked like—
Edmund.
Judith sat up in bed.
Rose looked like Edmund. Like Edmund in the last stages of his disease, when the once hale earl had withered, weakened, and finally retreated to his bedchamber, unable to even tend to the most personal of needs.
Rose Ashley was dying.
Did Mark know? Is that why he was so determined to move them into his house so soon after taking it over. Is that why he was acknowledging Olivia now, after three years of remaining at a distance?
If that were the case, what other secrets might be skulking behind those blue eyes and sharp wit? Is that why his bantering became crisper, more defensive as his mother had probed and prodded, not just about the Blackwell ball but his plans for the future?
Judith crossed her arms. “I do not know him. Sweet God in heaven, I do not know the man at all.” Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes, but she brushed them away. “No. I will not do this.”
This was a distraction. Only one thing mattered: saving her family. Making sure Atkinson paid for his arrogance, his manipulations. Rectifying all that had happened to Edmund and Margaret and ensuring their future and that of her three boys.
Nothing else should occupy her mind at this time. Including Mark Rydell.